Thin Ice (19 page)

Marshall whistled. “You should have seen this gal.”

“I knew we should have traded.”

“She looked like she just slid down a pole. I can definitely see her as a major tease. And I'm pretty sure there was a bruise on her face, though I wasn't sure with all the makeup.”

“You think O'Neill might have slapped her around?”

“It's possible. Her version of events is slightly different, though. She says it was all a big misunderstanding. She was just being friendly with Ritchie. And according to her, Ritchie was more interested in Mandy Hearst anyway.”

“So Dunne was telling the truth.”

“And Hearst was lying. Which means we're going to have to have another word with him for sure. The wife, too.”

“I'm talking to Matt Jones in a bit. You want me to try to talk to Hearst as well?”

“What do you think ?”

Smith considered it for a moment. “I'm thinking we should hold off. See what Jones says, then we can compare notes before we sit down with Hearst again — a little more formally this time.”

“Sounds good,” Marshall said. “So, how's it going over there, anyway?”

“Good. I've got some news as well. Seems our Russian friend is into all kinds of stuff, and having met him, I can honestly say I don't believe half of what he told me. He's a slick one.”

“You think we should be taking a hard look at him?”

“I'm still only halfway through the task force material on him, but I just found out the guy who supposedly does his dirty work was in Montreal on Friday night, then back in Toronto on Sunday afternoon.”

“Fits our timeline, except for the same lag issue as with Saunders, and everyone else.”

“That's the part that's missing,” Smith said, sketching out a timeline from February to mid-September, with points on the way representing Kurtisov's meeting, Saunders' blowout, and Hearst's party. He added one for the tussle with John Ridgeway in Peterborough for good measure, but it didn't change the large gap between Ritchie's interactions with either Kurtisov or Saunders and the murder. “There's got to be something we're missing. Something must have happened over the summer.”

“Hmm…. Oh, by the way, how was your reporter?”

“He was more useful than I thought,” Smith said, setting his pen down and abandoning his timeline. “He said Saunders was a bleacher creature.”

“A what?”

“He spent his time screaming at everyone in the stands; a real pain in the ass. Says he can see why Ritchie dumped him as his agent. He also said Ritchie's adoptive father was just the same. Crazy hockey parent — the kind who picks fights with the other team's parents.”

There was a pause in Marshall's crunching at the other end of the line. “That's interesting.”

“Yeah, except it's not very helpful, unless we're going to exhume him and ask him where he was last weekend.”

“I meant Ellen Ritchie's choice of men. Or maybe it was something in Ritchie himself that brought out the worst in people.”

“He obviously brought out the worst in someone last Saturday morning.” Smith sighed. “I don't know about you, Marsh, but I feel like we're just weaving this big spiderweb that keeps getting bigger and leading us further away from the centre.”

“We'll get there. We just need to catch a break. It's still early.”

“I'd better go if I want to talk to Jones.”

“Good luck. When are you back tomorrow?”

“Flight's at six.”

“You want to grab a beer when you get in?”

“Sure. I'll be in touch before then anyway.”

Smith ended the call and ate the last of the bun. The woman with the laptop was looking over again. He finished his coffee and stood, glancing in her direction. She really was attractive, with wavy blonde hair up in a yellow headband bearing a familiar logo. He smiled back, then headed for the door. The things he did for work.

Smith crossed the street and went to the main entrance of the giant arena, spotting a security guard as soon as he stepped into the foyer.

“I have a meeting with someone in the Raftsmen's management,” he said, pulling his notebook out to find the contact name Melissa McAdam had given him. The guard waved over a ticket attendant and looked at Smith.

“Name?”

“Jack Smith.”

“You got a Jack Smith on the list, Marjorie?”

“Yup. Follow me.”

Smith followed her through a side door, then down a circular hallway that led to another locked door, which she opened by entering a code. As they continued on down the wide concrete hallway toward a group of young men playing soccer, he realized he was looking at half of the Raftsmen's starting lineup. The coach was standing beyond the soccer game, talking to a woman whose back was turned to Smith. When she turned around, he saw it was Melissa McAdam. She spotted him and came over.

“Hi, Jack,” she said, offering her hand. She was dressed in a navy pantsuit and heels that put her eyes almost level with his. He remembered her distinctive perfume from their last meeting.

“I didn't realize you were in Toronto.”

“I decided to make the trip at the last minute. He's fine,” she added, looking at the attendant, who nodded and turned to leave.

“Come with me,” she said, leading him away from the assembled players. As Smith followed the click of her heels on the concrete, Dennis Hearst emerged from the dressing room and he saw the flash of recognition in the captain's eyes.

“Oh, hi,” he said, seemingly unsure whether to stop, as he glanced between Smith and McAdam, who kept walking. He winked at Smith and whispered, “Watch out for her. She's a tiger.”

Smith looked ahead as McAdam reached a junction with another hallway and turned toward him, waiting.

“I thought it would be better if you talked to Matt discreetly,” she said, when he caught up. “I want you to have full access, but we do want to minimize distractions given they're playing in a couple of hours.”

“I wouldn't want to mess with the karma, especially not right before the battle of Ontario.”

The sparkle in her green eyes matched her bright smile. He also noticed the elegant pearl choker at the base of her neck and the lightly tanned skin exposed in the neckline of her crisp, white blouse. He had thought her attractive before, but up close she seemed to exude a sexuality that was hard to resist.

“So are you here for other … meetings, or did you just come for Matt?” she asked.

“No, I've been in meetings all day. More tomorrow.”

“Well, if you don't have any tonight, you can be my guest at the game.”

“Well, I do need to discuss some follow-up interviews with a couple of the players … and Toronto versus Ottawa's usually a pretty good game,” he added, grinning. A growing rivalry over the years usually translated into gritty play when the two teams met, interspersed by a fight or two. “I'm surprised Jones isn't in the lineup.”

“We've got a new prospect Dad wants to try out. Just called him up last night,” she said, as they passed the door to a gym with a mix of free weights and stationary training bikes.

“A secret weapon, huh ?”

“You could say that, yeah. We'll still have O'Neill out there, of course,” she added, pulling up at the door to a room just past the gym, its door marked
therapy
. She watched him read the sign. “As in physical, not mental. Jonesy has a hamstring injury, but that's top secret.”

“Got it.”

He followed her into the room to a massage table at the far end, where Matt Jones lay face down, a physiotherapist working the muscles of his left leg.

“How's the leg, Matt?”

“Better. I could still play tonight, you know.”

“I know, but take the chance to rest it. This is the detective I was telling you about.”

Smith shook Jones's hand as the latter waved the therapist off and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I'll leave you guys to it. Come and see me when you're done,” she said, laying her hand on Smith's shoulder. He enjoyed the sensation as her touch lingered a split second more than was necessary, and then she was gone.

“She's somethin', huh?” Jones said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them both as they watched her leave, the click of her heels disappearing in the hallway.

“What? Yeah, she's very … nice,” Smith said awkwardly, collecting his thoughts. “Do you want to talk here, or …?”

“Let's grab a seat out in the stands. There's plenty of room and we won't be disturbed.”

Smith followed Jones along the hall and out into the arena's bowl, taking a seat a few rows up behind the visitor's bench. No one was on the ice, and the only people in the stands were stadium staff and a smattering of reporters on the far side. It was an odd sensation to be sitting in such a large space — where chaotic noise was the norm — and to hear the sound of their voices deadened by the still air.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

Smith was familiar with Jones's edgy style of play — in fact he was one of Smith's favourite Raftsmen. But the sense of power he carried with him onto the ice, matched by the powerful build under the tight-fitting T-shirt, was missing from his demeanour. He seemed nervous.

“I assume Ms. McAdam told you I'm investigating Curtis Ritchie's death?”

Jones nodded.

“Did you know him well?”

“Not really. I met him at camp for the first time.”

Smith asked him the same list of questions he had asked the other players, about Ritchie's manner and integration with the rest of the team. The answers from Jones painted the same general picture; that Ritchie was your typical rookie in most ways, though he did have a bit more arrogance than most, due to his skill and the big trades the Raftsmen had made to bring him to Ottawa. Smith gave him several opportunities to volunteer the details of the party at Hearst's house, but Jones didn't take them.

“We heard there was a team party at the start of camp, at Hearst's house,” he finally prompted.

Jones nodded. “He does it every year, for the past few seasons anyway.”

“You were there?”

Jones nodded and looked at his hands, as though he found them suddenly interesting.

“Anything unusual happen?”

“No, not really.” He shook his head as Smith began to grow impatient.

“Look, Matt. I know about the player's code, but this is a murder investigation and I'd appreciate straight answers.”

Jones looked shocked. “What do you mean? I don't —”

“I know there was an altercation between Hearst and Ritchie.” He paused, seeing defeat in Jones's eyes just before he looked away. “I'm not interested in smearing anyone's reputation, or interfering with team chemistry, but a young man is dead, and I need to get to the bottom of it. Did you witness a scuffle between Hearst and Ritchie?” Smith hoped he wouldn't have to reveal the fact that someone else had seen him do just that. He had a feeling Dunne would be in for a rough ride on his return to the dressing room if he did.

Jones nodded. “Yeah. They were having a bit of a chat.”

“A chat?” Smith raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, they were shoving each other. I was on my way to the bathroom when I noticed them. I went over to see what was going on.”

“And what was going on?”

“They were arguing. Hearst was telling Ritchie to back off.”

Smith waited for more, but Jones was looking at his hands again.

“Did it have to do with Ritchie's behaviour toward some of the other players' girlfriends, or wives?”

Jones kept his eyes down, but nodded his head.

“Who, in particular, Matt? Did Hearst tell him to stay away from his wife?”

“Yeah.”

“What did Ritchie say?”

“He said he didn't know what he was talking about. He was just trying to be friendly.”

“Did you hear Hearst mention Tanner O'Neill's girlfriend?”

Jones looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Was Hearst telling him to stay away from her, as well?”

Jones shook his head. “No. I never heard him say that.”

“So it was just over Mandy Hearst?”

“As far as I know, yeah.”

Smith moved quickly to another question, but he was already more interested in the answers Hearst would give when he and Marshall talked to him again.

Smith stood in the hallway outside the visitors' dressing room, looking at his watch and wondering what had happened to Melissa McAdam. She had said to meet him here to discuss follow-up interviews with some of the players, but it was getting late, and they had already gone out for their pre-game skate. He was debating whether he would stick around for a period or just head out and get something to eat.

“I'm sorry,” McAdam said, appearing around the corner. “Something came up, and … well, anyway, I'm glad I caught you.”

“No problem,” he said, as another man in a suit came up behind McAdam and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me for a second,” she said, turning to talk to the other man, who looked like an agent. A few minutes later, Smith was really getting tired of standing around when McAdam extricated herself from her conversation.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, seeming to recognize someone else coming down the hallway. “Do you want to go get a drink? I'll never get a free minute around here.”

Smith shrugged his shoulders. He could certainly use a beer. “Sure.”

“Follow me,” she said, leading them off down the hall toward an emergency exit that led into an outer corridor, then a loading area, and finally outside.

“You seem to know your way around the building.”

“I can do better than that. I know there's a pretty decent bar and grill over there,” she said, pointing across the street. He followed her as she darted through the gridlocked traffic and up to the entrance. Inside, a large bar dominated to the right, whereas the left side of the floor plan was devoted to a smaller dining room. From the crisp linens and sparkling glassware, Smith thought it looked a cut above his usual fare. But this was downtown Toronto, after all.

“You okay with sitting at the bar? Oh wait, there's a table coming open there,” she said, heading off toward a corner table where a trio were standing. A waiter appeared and started to wave at her, but she brushed him off and continued to the table. “That was lucky. This place is always jammed,” she said, as they settled into their chairs and the waiter cleared the remaining glasses, a frown on his face. Another server appeared to take their orders a moment later.

“One of your martinis, please.”

“Draft for me,” Smith said, as the waitress scribbled the orders and left.

“So, how was your talk with Jones? He tell you what you needed to know?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Sounds mysterious. Can you tell me if you've made any progress, or would you have to kill me then?” She smiled and then put her hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry. That was in really bad taste. What with Curtis …” She put her hand to her forehead. “What a thing to say.”

“It's okay. I'm used to dark humour.”

“I guess it comes with the territory, huh?”

“Yeah. The truth is, there isn't much to tell you about the investigation anyway.”

“Is that unusual? I mean, not to have a suspect after a week?”

“I didn't say we didn't have any suspects.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that's good news, then. I think the sooner the case is closed, the better.”

“You mean for the team?”

“I was thinking of Ellen Ritchie, actually,” she said, as their drinks arrived.

“Of course.” Smith nodded. “I didn't mean to suggest you didn't care about her. Just that it must be quite a distraction for the players.”

“Good save.” She winked and raised her martini glass. He did the same with his beer glass, and couldn't resist a smile.

“So tell me, Detec —”

“Call me Jack, please.”

“Okay, Jack. Tell me, how did you get into homicide investigation?”

“The normal progression, I guess.”

“Really? You seem pretty young to be in charge of the biggest murder investigation in Ottawa's history — at least, I'm assuming it is.”

Smith shook his head. “First of all, I'm not in charge of the investigation, I'm just part of a team.”

“Don't be modest,” she said, sipping her drink. “It doesn't suit you. You're ten years younger than the average homicide detective. You must be good.”

“I never said I wasn't good.”

She smiled, skewered the green olive, and popped it in her mouth. “That's better.”

“What about you — what made you leave Bay Street?”

She laughed. “How long have you got?”

“I didn't think it was a trick question. I thought you'd just say you loved hockey, or you wanted to work with your dad.”

“Liar.” She was smiling as she said it.

“Okay, I don't really see hockey management as your area of interest.”

“Why not?” Her back straightened visibly.

“Well, you don't seem to like hockey that much, for starters.”

“Is it that obvious ?” Her face broke into a devious grin.

“Not at all,” he said, straight-faced. She waited a second and then laughed.

“Fair enough. But you don't have to be a fan to be good at management, just like you don't need to be a good driver to run a car company. And yes, my dad's a big part in all of this. Bad enough he had to have a daughter, but then to have her run off to Bay Street.”

“You're an only child?”

She nodded. “My mother couldn't have any kids after me, so I guess we both ruined Dad's hopes of having a son to play hockey with.”

“He seems very proud of you.” Smith said, as she finished her drink. His beer was almost gone too. He assumed the fancy little glasses were to blame.

“You want to get some dinner?”

Smith looked at his watch. “Don't you have to be back for the game?”

She laughed. “Like you said, I'm not really that big a fan. I don't usually watch the games.”

“In that case, yeah, I'm starving.”

“So, what
can
you tell me about the investigation?” McAdam asked as they sipped their post-dinner cappuccinos.

Smith sighed. “You really are relentless, aren't you?”

“I've got the team to think about.”

“You mean the team that's playing across the street? Aren't you even interested in the score?”

“You sound like my father. I'll get the score after it's over, don't worry.”

He smiled. “Honestly, there's not much to say. There are some people of interest that we're looking into. I'm sure we'll catch a break soon.”

McAdam pouted. “That's not telling me much.”

“Maybe you have a theory?”

“From what I've heard of Curtis, it was probably a jilted husband.”

“I understand he was quite a player.” Smith turned the little cup around on its saucer, adding: “In the non-hockey sense of the word.”

“I think he got around,” she said, sipping her coffee and leaning her chin in her hand, the movement of her wrist triggering the release of a trace of her familiar perfume. Her suit jacket lay over the back of the chair, and the neckline of blouse plunged seductively with the forward motion. “How about you, Jack,” she asked, pointing to his hand. “No ring ?”

He shook his head. “You?”

“I don't think I'm cut out for marriage. Besides, it seems to end in misery so often, I wonder why anyone bothers.”

“You're awfully young to be so cynical.”

“You know a lot of happily married people?”

Smith smiled. He knew Marshall's marriage was solid, but she had a point. A couple of his best friends' marriages had imploded before the five-year mark, with disastrous results, and of the ones that hadn't, he wasn't sure happiness figured prominently in the equation.

“Some,” he said.

“I don't think either of our careers are particularly conducive, either. I can't imagine your hours are normal.”

Smith shrugged. “People manage. They make it work.”

“Maybe, but I'm still not convinced by the overall concept. My parents are a case in point. When they were married … an unhappier pair I've never known.”

“How about now?”

“They get along like old friends; which is what they were, once upon a time. Your parents still married?”

“Yeah.”

“That's nice, and it explains your optimism. Ever been close?”

“Not really,” he lied. He had no intention of letting that elephant enter the room.

“Well,” she said, looking at her watch. “I guess I should be getting back to my hotel.”

“You really aren't heading back to the rink?”

“I told you, I usually don't even go on the road. I plan to get up early and hit Yorkville tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep,” she said, waving to the waiter for the cheque.

He pulled out his wallet. “I'll walk you back, if you like.”

“A gentleman, how nice.” She smiled as she slipped into her jacket. “But put your wallet away. I have very strong opinions about protocol, and I invited you, remember?”

He resisted until she made it clear she was serious. “Well, at least let me buy you a nightcap,” he said, as the waiter took her card.

“Why not?”

Smith awoke with a start around eight. He had been dreaming about Curtis Ritchie again. This time he had been in hot pursuit of the killer, along the canal path, when he had awoken. He took a look around and did a double take. The room looked different from the night before, which was understandable, since it wasn't his. His clothes were in a heap on the floor, and an open bottle of champagne sat on a little table next to two half-empty glasses.

“Good morning.” He felt a hand slide around his waist and the warmth of naked skin on his back as Melissa McAdam's familiar perfume wafted up from the pillow. “What time's your meeting?”

He glanced at the clock before turning to face her. There was a thin ray of light through the drapes that let him see her — as beautiful now as she had looked the night before. He knew he shouldn't be here, but he knew he didn't care.

“We've got time.”